


The Wizard and the Hawk

by shadownashira



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Banter, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Protective Clint, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadownashira/pseuds/shadownashira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Clint are childhood friends, and when the wizard gets into trouble involving a mob boss and the Chicago PD, he knows who to call for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wizard and the Hawk

I paced irritably from wall to wall of the police holding cell, which for me took only two steps, tiny as the space was. I steadfastly ignored the person seated calmly on the bench in the cell directly opposite me.

"Mr Dresden, I've discovered that in matters involving your charming self, headaches are unfortunately a common occurrence. Perhaps you could sit down before looking at you gives me even more of one." 

I stopped and glared across at Gentleman Johnny Marcone, mob boss of Chicago, who was watching me blandly. The scumbag's expensive suit had somehow remained impeccable through the events of the night, which just wasn't fair. The knees of my jeans were all scuffed from having to crawl around on the floor avoiding bullets.

Yeah, I still didn't get how a simple "exorcise haunted building" case for a client turned into this. In hindsight, I probably should have been suspicious that the security systems at my client’s warehouse weren't active, considering that it was the middle of the night, but I had just assumed that my client had turned off the alarms for the night to let me work. Good thing too, because it had been one of those well-maintained, high-tech warehouses rather than the usual ramshackle ones I tended to end up in, and my magic would probably have fried something. Then there had been a sudden draft of cold air from _inside_ the building, and apparently the warehouse wasn’t as empty as I had assumed, because I was thrown headfirst into a clusterfuck when armed men burst out of a back room in panic, firing their guns willy-nilly. 

Needless to say, it didn’t help matters when they ran into my startled looming figure in the darkness, or when the ghost started shrieking horrifically.

I didn’t want to risk bullets ricocheting off my shield when I couldn’t really see the people running around me, so cue several minutes of frantic crawling around the floor hiding behind shelves as men shouted in the background. Eventually, I found myself crouching behind a desk with Marcone and Cujo as everyone else fled the premises.

“Seriously,” I had hissed at them, “secret meeting in a warehouse? Could you be any more cliché?”

“My apologies for disappointing your expectations of how I should conduct my business, Mr Dresden,” the infuriating man drawled back at me. Cujo just glared, attempting to turn me into stone by sheer force of will.

That was when police sirens started wailing in earnest outside. I assumed that the goons who had been running around like headless chickens weren’t Marcone’s guys, because the police found two thugs dead of friendly fire in the back room, and mob boss or not, Marcone wasn’t someone to tolerate that kind of incompetence from his own people. 

Now here I was, arrested by Chicago's finest. I was being charged with murder, breaking and entering, and illegal possession of firearms, despite the fact that I wasn't carrying a gun, and did actually have a license for the revolver I owned. The only silver lining in sight was the fact that Marcone and Cujo had been arrested, too.

"Maybe you could, you know, _not_ look at me?" I responded snidely.

An eyebrow lifted and a disapproving look was levelled in my direction. "Really, Harry, there's no need for childishness."

"Don't call me that, scumbag," was my automatic rejoinder without any real heat to it. This was a routine conversation that always happened every time I encountered Marcone, and I had lost any real hope that he would actually stop using my first name.

The door at the end of the hallway unlocked with a click before Marcone could respond. The man stood, brushing off his suit. 

"If you could refrain from provoking the police, Harry, my lawyers should have us released in an hour or so without any further consequences."

I held back from pointing out that it was probably another petty criminal being brought in, that the Chicago PD usually let me stew for hours before letting me have my phone call on occasions when my wizardly affairs clashed with police business. It had barely been fifteen minutes since we had been locked in, but I was all too aware that Marcone had his sticky fingers in every pie in the city, including the Chicago PD. 

"I don't need your help," I bit out as two officers marched down to our cells.

"Phone call," one of them said curtly, and then Marcone's cell was unlocked, because of course he would get his phone call first. The scumbag even smiled indulgently at me as he left.

Damn him! The annoying thing was that it _was_ much easier for me if I just sat back and let the Baron make everything vanish. This was his fault, anyway, so he should be the one fixing it, but it still didn’t sit right with me. I would feel like I owed him a favour, and the bastard would probably bully me into doing something for him, and I would do it because I was just that kind of person and Marcone knew me better than I wanted to admit. Alternatively, Murphy could put in a word for me and hopefully I wouldn't be charged with anything, but there _were_ two dead bodies. Meanwhile there was bail to consider, and a murder investigation in the worst case scenario. It was 1am in the morning and I really didn't want to disrupt Murph's sleep for this. That left Thomas, if he wasn't out nightclub-hopping, or Michael, though I winced at imagining Charity's glare.

A few minutes later my turn came around, and I waved flippantly at Marcone, then Hendricks, as I passed by. I was about to punch in Thomas’ cell number, an officer waiting in the background impatiently, when my eyes caught on one of the cubicle walls in front of me, which displayed a map of the United States. I eyed New York City, an idea forming in my head.

Without letting myself think too much about it, I dialled another number instead, hoping my magic didn't short out the connection. The call picked up after two rings, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Whoever this is better have a good reason for calling me at one in the morning," the familiar voice snarked over the line.

Mentally giving myself a high-five, I said cheerfully, "Hey, Cupid!"

"Harry, you overgrown ape! Not that it's not good to hear from you, but d'you have to call while I'm getting my beauty sleep?" Clint's voice was surprised but fond, and hell's bells, it really had been far too long since we'd talked. Partly because of my lack of cell phone, and partly because of Clint's erratic mission schedules, but I felt a rush of guilt nonetheless for not putting aside enough time to keep in contact, considering that I received a voicemail from him every few weeks.

Clint Barton was my first and oldest friend, preceding even Elaine since I had first met him at a travelling circus when I was a ward of the state after my father died. Stars and stones, but had it really been more than two decades? There were stretches of time in between when we had lost contact with each other, most notably when I had killed Justin and gone on the run, then during the fiasco with Barney with Clint subsequently getting the dumb idea of becoming a paid mercenary. But all that had worked out eventually; I ended up with Eb, and Phil Coulson happened to Clint.

"Liar, you sound way too awake and you picked up too quickly for you to have been asleep." 

"Damn, caught me out, you hotshot PI. You're right, just wrapped up a mission. Great timing, but where are you calling from? This isn't your landline -"

The officer behind me cleared his throat pointedly, and I hastily interrupted Clint.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Clint, but I actually need Phil's help. I would have called him directly, but his name card's somewhere in my apartment." Ever since my debut as a private investigator and increased propensity to get into trouble with the law, Clint had repeatedly told me that his handler could help with the legal side of things if needed, and Phil had passed me his name card the last time I had seen them in New York a year ago. Time to test that claim. Besides, I could tentatively label Phil Coulson a friend, and I would much rather owe the agent a favour than Gentleman Johnny Marcone.

Clint's voice turned serious. "Shoot."

I knew I would be ribbed mercilessly for this afterwards, but for now Clint listened to me intently, then told me to sit tight and not get into more trouble. 

Back in my cell, I sprawled out on the bench and thought seriously about taking a week off to visit New York, or wherever Clint was these days. I could ask him to come to Chicago instead, but to be honest I was feeling a little burnt out and wanted to spend some time away. The last time I had seen Clint in person had been just after the mess with the Raiths and the practitioners. Since then Clint had offered to swing by Chicago, but then the Denarians and Demonreach had happened and put those plans to rest. I would have to make sure someone, maybe Thomas, fed Mouse and Mister, or just Mister if I took Mouse with me. Leave Molly with some homework to occupy her while I was away. Tell Murphy to call Carlos if something urgent happened and I was somehow out of reach.

It was about three quarters of an hour later, by my internal clock, when there was activity again. Marcone finally looked away from where he had been watching me curiously. I didn’t move from my sprawl, preparing myself for some cutting remarks when Marcone’s lawyers had me swept out of here along with their boss.

It was a Lieutenant Jameson who stopped outside our cells. Maybe the Chicago PD always sent higher-ranked officers to deal with arrests involving Marcone directly, or the Lieutenant might be on Marcone’s payroll, I wouldn’t be surprised. I made a mental note to tell Murphy when I next saw her.

“Dresden, you’re free to go.”

What?

“What?” I repeated out loud, baffled. Across from me, the Baron’s face smoothed out into a neutral mask.

The Lieutenant gestured for the officer with him to unlock my cell. I stood, automatically stepping out as the door swung open.

“Your lawyer called. Someone must have made a mistake, we’re not pressing charges against you. You can go now.” Jameson shrugged unconcernedly, seeming as if he was here only on orders and otherwise not caring about what was going on.

Still bewildered, I followed them out, too confused to even be smug about the fact that I had been released earlier than Marcone. It was only when my belongings were returned to me that I finally believed that Clint and Phil had somehow worked a miracle and gotten me out of police custody scot-free.

Well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right? I checked that everything had been returned to me, ignoring the weird looks from the officers around me when I slid my blasting rod back into the pocket of my duster. Then I made my way out of the station, pausing briefly to adjust to the relative dimness outside. 

There were two black town cars idling on the street, an elderly man in a suit with a briefcase getting out of one and heading past me into the station. The expensive-looking vehicles and the man who looked like a lawyer pretty much added up to Marcone, so I headed down the sidewalk, eager to leave before getting caught up by the Baron or his men again. It would be a long walk back to my apartment, but with my lack of cash and transport I hardly had a choice. I had only taken several steps when someone called out behind me.

“Dresden!”

I spun around, wondering if my ears were deceiving me, because that couldn’t be who I thought I had heard.

One Clint Barton was striding towards me, huge grin on his face. 

"Clint?" I stared disbelievingly, but no, it really was the archer; our eyes locked as the other man approached and nothing happened, because of course we had already soulgazed a long time ago. As a rule, I never asked others what they saw in my eyes, but I still remembered vividly whatever I witnessed in someone's soul. Clint's soulscape was a mountaintop plateau looking out on an endless blue sky, currents of air fluctuating from gentle playful breezes to relentlessly harsh gales, accompanied by unforgiving torrents of rain. In the midst of it all, a gold-streaked hawk struggled to stay aloft, spirited and stalwart at heart. I had never really believed that the 'Hawkeye' moniker was a coincidence, because names, whether birth names or nicknames, always had power.

Clint tackled me in a hug, still grinning like a madman. By the time we pulled back – a short time later, definitely adhering to masculine 'best friends who haven't seen each other in ages' standards, in case you were asking – I was grinning too, exhilarated with Clint's sudden presence.

"Miss me, King Kong?" Clint teased.

"Not at all, Legolas," I shot back easily. "How did you get here so quickly?"

The blond shrugged, tucking his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and looking pleased with himself. "Was in Indianapolis when I got your call. Since I was nearby anyway, Coulson gave me the go-ahead to fly the jet over while he got everything sorted out with the Chicago PD."

"Okay, I say this again. Phil is a miracle worker," I declared.

"I told you, Nat and I have the most kickass handler ever," Clint replied proudly. 

"He's probably a saint too, has to be to put up with the likes of you."

"Calling yourself a saint? I didn't know your head had gotten that big…"

It was great to fall back on this easy banter back and forth, needling each other good-naturedly. It was very much similar to the bond I had with Thomas, but my friendship with Clint ran deeper than that by virtue of time and experience. Clint had been present, or at the very least aware, of the major milestones in my life so far: my parents' deaths, Elaine, Justin's attempted enthrallment and subsequent death by my hands, the Doom of Damocles, and all the other incidents I had been involved with here in Chicago the past several years.

Similarly, I knew about the crap my friend had been through: his parents' deaths, the abuse by foster parents, the circus, the betrayal by his brother and mentor, his stupid decision to go freelance as a killer, recruitment by SHIELD, and rescue of the Black Widow. I didn't know anything about the covert missions he went on now, but all the other stuff were the parts that were important, were what made up Clint Barton.

Clint's eyes abruptly moving to a point behind me was what alerted me to the fact that we had been lingering too long. I turned to see that Marcone and Cujo had emerged from the station. Their lawyer nodded to them, got into one of the cars still parked there and drove off, but the Baron and Hendricks were walking down the sidewalk towards us instead of leaving. Hell's bells, hadn't I already met my maximum quota today for time spent with a scumbag?

Clint reacted to them by stepping up beside me, stance deliberately balanced and expression suddenly cool and guarded. Even as I blinked bemusedly, Hendricks was mirroring the movements opposite me with Marcone. 

"You do realise I'm the one with the shield bracelet and spelled duster, right?" I asked Clint rhetorically before addressing the Baron, "What do you want now?"

"I merely wanted to congratulate you on managing to avoid being tangled up in a murder investigation. I believe the entire incident has been classified as a robbery gone wrong." Marcone's voice was mild and toneless, a carefully constructed mask of indifference on his face.

Anyone else would have thought that the Baron had only the most superficial of interest in tonight's events. That might even have been true because it was inevitable that the police occasionally caught up with mob activities. When I had made my unexpected appearance, Marcone had probably thought up all sorts of plans to trap me into doing a favour for him. What the Baron _hadn't_ anticipated was me getting out of the situation without his help. I had known him long enough to recognise the way that Marcone had deliberately _not_ asked a question meant he was practically burning up with curiosity, and that he was really fishing for information. 

I did my best to suppress a childish urge to snigger and dance circles around the man. No matter how far the mob boss' reach and influence stretched, I highly doubted it extended to SHIELD. 

Instead, I breezily echoed what he had said earlier. "Must have been because of my charming self."

Marcone must have seen through to some of the internal cackling I was indulging in, because the man's eyes narrowed in aggravation. I smiled sunnily back at him, and he switched his intense money-green gaze to Clint beside me, still and watchful.

"I don't believe we've met."

"Which means that you don't recognise me from all the surveillance you have on Harry. Make a habit of knowing everyone he socialises with, huh, Gentleman Johnny?" was Clint's sardonic response, and he was no longer just best-friend-Clint, but also Hawkeye-on-his-guard, and it always reminded me of that gold-streaked bird of prey circling in the skies above.

Marcone's scrutiny sharpened as Hendricks' hackles rose. Clint had their attention, and that wasn't a good thing, but the blond could take care of himself; if not, he had Phil and Natasha and SHIELD backing him up. "You have me at a disadvantage, Mister...?"

"Clint."

The Baron waited, but Clint didn't give his last name. I wondered if Marcone would be able to dig up any information on him. Maybe, maybe not. SHIELD was as cagey as any secret organisation should be, but the archer probably had some kind of falsified public record.

We were interrupted when a sleek white Jaguar convertible purred down the street and pulled up next to us. Thomas, looking like he had just stepped out of the pages of _GQ_ , raised a hand in greeting as he jumped out of the driver's seat, nimble and graceful like a jungle cat. A vampiric jungle cat. 

"I called Thomas for a ride since he told me that your piece of shit car's at the garage again," Clint explained, jabbing his elbow into my side.

I bristled. "Leave the Beetle alone!"

"I would if you would just let me buy you a new car, for Christ's sake," Clint retorted. "Preferably one manufactured sometime this century."

Thomas exchanged fist bumps with Clint before gliding up on my other side. Yeah, before meeting White Court vampires I had no idea someone could actually 'glide', but that was what Thomas did. "You okay, Harry?"

"Fine, it was just the Chicago PD, not some kind of creepy-crawly." Which reminded me, I had to go finish up the exorcism at the warehouse which was now a crime scene. Fantastic.

"Mr Raith." Marcone nodded his head civilly towards Thomas. Next to him, Hendricks had almost tensed into a brick wall with the addition of a vampire to the mix. 

Thomas nodded back with a kind of wary respect mixed with disapproval. The wary respect was there because of what had happened with the Denarians recently, while the disapproval was probably because of his proximity to me. As my elder brother, Thomas sometimes took protectiveness way too seriously. He automatically disliked anyone who was a danger to me, and even if he was a mortal, Baron Johnny Marcone was downright lethal.

Then I realised that now _both_ Clint and Thomas were hovering. "Seriously, guys? Who's the wizard here?"

Marcone was watching Clint and Thomas at my sides with the strangest expression on his face. And okay, that was it, enough mobster interaction for the day. Time to end the party. 

"We gotta run. Hope I don't see you soon, scumbag, Cujo. Toodles!" I wriggled my fingers at them in farewell as I started walking backwards towards the Jaguar. 

Marcone's lips quirked in resignation. "Goodbye for now, Mr Dresden. Do try to stay out of trouble." Hendricks just glared.

Thomas flashed his fangs while Clint gave them a jaunty wave and they both vaulted into their seats. I opened and closed the car door like a normal person. Have you seen me? I was liable to trip over my own feet and crack open my head if I tried to pull off that move.

*********

Later in my apartment after Thomas had dropped us off, I offered Clint a Coke from my ice box and asked about him taking time off and me visiting whichever city he called home right now.

"Yeah, about that, I'm starting a new assignment two days from now…" He paused to drink, one hand scratching Mouse behind the ear as the temple dog's tail thumped the ground happily. I didn't try to hide my disappointed expression.

" _But_ , as it so happens, Coulson wanted to ask you to come in to consult on something. He says he'll take it as repayment for what he did for you today."

"Consult? Did you guys come across a practitioner or some magical artefact again?" That happened every now and then. With SHIELD doing their secret spy stuff, encountering magic was unavoidable. Practitioners, whether minor talents or fully-trained wizards like me, weren't exactly common, but there were enough of us to form large communities in some places.

"Well, I wouldn't quite say that we 'came across' it. It was more like it crash-landed." 

And that was how I ended up taking a vacation to New Mexico to look at a hammer.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Harry, and the 1st person POV was an interesting challenge. All comments appreciated!


End file.
